Spider Man
by Jason Kenney
Summary: Peter Parker goes to Washington...
1. Mister Parker Goes To Washington

"This is all your fault, you know that?"   
  
It doesn't respond. It never responds. If it did I'd freak out.   
  
But, tonight, just like every other night when we have this one-way conversation, it just lays there on the bed.   
  
Sure, it can't talk, but that doesn't mean it can influence me.   
  
It's beckoning me. Calling out to me.   
  
But I'm here because of this damn thing. My life is where it is because of it.   
  
I hate it. I hate what it's made me. I hate what it's taken away.   
  
It's not about the rewards, it's never been about the rewards. Now it's just about maintaining a certain stability. There has to be one constant in my life.   
  
It knows I depend on it now. It knows that despite everything it's done, no, BECAUSE of everything it's done I need it more than anything.   
  
It slips on as easy as ever, I'm on autopilot now.   
  
The window is open, the city is waiting.   
  
I turn to the mirror I placed by the window just for this purpose.   
  
"I hate you," I say to the reflection as it mimics me, hating me in return.   
  
And once again there is no Peter Parker, there is only...   
  
***  
  
Spider-Man  
  
Issue #1  
  
Mr. Parker Goes To Washington   
  
by Jason Kenney  
  
http://www.digitallymystic.com/sites/fiction/ultmarv  
  
***  
  
"You still haven't taken it off, have you?"   
  
The question wasn't meant to be sobering but it was. I started to play with my wedding band with my thumb.   
  
"You still haven't changed your name, have you?"   
  
That question was meant to be sobering and I was sorry I had said it as soon as I finished.   
  
"You get used to something after so long," she said, running a hand through her gorgeous hair. "And I've always liked the way it sounds Mary Jane..."   
  
"...Watson-Parker," we both finish.   
  
"Well, I've gotten used to this. And I've always liked the way it feels."   
  
Silence. She leaned forward on the balcony railing and looked at the city before us. I simply stared at her, admiring her beauty as I always have.   
  
I tell myself once again the same thing I tell myself every thinking moment:   
  
I was married to a goddess.   
  
"Why did you move here, Peter," she asked, keeping her sites set on the city.   
  
"It was a change of pace," I said as I came up beside her and leaned on the railing with her. "There's nothing left for me in New York. There hasn't been for years, not since Aunt May passed away."   
  
"But why Washington? Why not somewhere else, some place a little quieter."   
  
"I've lived in the city or near one all my life. It's a part of me."   
  
She hung her head and closed her eyes. "I know."   
  
She means she knows which part. I know which part, too. It's the part that drove her away.   
  
"MJ," I said, turning to her and turning her towards me, "let's not talk about this. We don't see each other often enough, let's not fill the time with this."   
  
She nodded and looked at me.   
  
She'd been crying.   
  
God, I hate myself.   
  
***  
  
"Excuse me, but how do I get to the White House from here?"   
  
The man turned the gun towards me, but I was not about to let him get a shot off. With a practiced flick of the wrist, webbing shot from the back of my hand and wrapped around his gun.   
  
Like a good little bad guy he still pulled the trigger.   
  
Heh, I've always enjoyed the sound of a good backfire. And the string of curses never ceases to amaze me.   
  
"My, you're just as articulate as the guys in New York."   
  
Even with a sore hand he still had his senses and leapt at me, which I easily dodged.   
  
"And just as smart too!" With a little pressure into the palm of my right hand I fired some more webbing at the would be thief, only this was special webbing. My left hand fired some of the same stuff near the top of a close building. Almost as soon as each strand connected with its target it contracted.   
  
A special little concoction of mine made just for Washington DC. The buildings aren't as tall here and the streets are wide. Webswinging from building to building was pretty hard dodging trucks and people's heads. So, the amazing contracting webbing!   
  
Not only pulls me up buildings but pulls things closer to me.   
  
Like bad guys.   
  
I quickly did my thing of bundling him up nicely with my regular webbing from the back of my hand and left him dangling for the cops to pick up and swung along right after I double checked to make sure the lady this guy was trying to rob got away. And she did. Looks like she remembered her purse too.   
  
You wouldn't believe the number of folks who forget.   
  
And I smile. Damn it, I smile. I hate this, I hate who I am like this, but I can't help but smile.   
  
The site of the thief dangling there is amusing.   
  
The thrill of saving another soul is refreshing.   
  
The rush of the wind is exhilarating.   
  
The joy of being Spider-Man makes me hate it more.   
  
***  
  
Man, working as a staff photographer for the Daily Bugle in DC is a cakewalk. No Jameson breathing down your neck, no Jameson demanding pictures NOW, no Jameson doing anything. He can only boss me around by e-mail, phone, or proxy.   
  
He's in New York and I'm in Washington DC.   
  
And the beats are so easy! Politics, politics, politics. Sure there are crimes, but they have people for those already, locals to handle that stuff. I'm an outsider, I don't know anything about the city itself, so I get the easy stuff.   
  
Today it's chasing a congressman to hound him with questions about some affair. I'm just there to take pictures as he waves, smiles, and states once again "no comment".   
  
Easy enough.   
  
Joseph "Sparky" Phillips is the wonderful office manager down here and he's no J. Jonah Jameson, let me tell you. The man couldn't hold still, he was always moving. That and his short, bulldog appearance made people think of him kinda like... well, a bulldog. Only, gentle. Thus the dog nickname, Sparky.   
  
"Hey, Peter," he said to me as I came back from taking all the pictures the congressman would allow, "can I talk to you for a second?"   
  
"Sure thing, Sparky," I said as I followed him into his office.   
  
"Close the door behind you," he said as he sat down at his desk. I did and sat across from him.   
  
"What's up?"   
  
"Well, Peter, I'm changing your assignments."   
  
This was unexpected. I mean, it's not like the congressman story was going anywhere, but they were always in need of embarrassing photos.   
  
"I'm sorry," I said, "am I doing something wrong?"   
  
"No, no, it's not that," Sparky said, leaning back, "it's just that I have had a story come up that fits you better than anyone else. You've covered it before, actually, in New York."   
  
Crap.   
  
"Did you know that there have been at least five Spider-Man sightings in the past week?" asked Sparky, leaning forward again. He was getting uncomfortable sitting down. "You covered him in New York, got pictures, hell, spoke with him, right?"   
  
"Yeah," I said with a sigh and leaning back. Why me?   
  
"I want you on that."   
  
"Sparky, isn't there something else, I mean, I pulled the Spider-Man beat in New York. I came here for a change."   
  
"Peter," said Sparky standing up and moving from around the desk to sit on the front of it, "this is big. There are no superhero types in Washington. You only find them in New York or anywhere else, but not Washington. Spider-Man's here for a reason and I want someone on him that knows him. You've covered him for a while, I assume you have a feel for him, probably would have better luck sniffing him out than anyone else.   
  
"Besides, Jameson specifically said he wanted you on it."   
  
Jameson. No matter what city, the Bugle is still his paper. And as long as I work for the Bugle, I work for Jameson. I can't escape him, no matter how much I may want to.   
  
Like so many other things.   
  
I sighed. "Look, I know you want a change, and you'll get it. Just get us started on this story and I'll try and get someone else on it. But, until then, I want you to get me pictures and stories of this guy. And not just sightings, everyone will have those, get me up close and personal. You're the only one who can do it, Peter, you've done it before."   
  
Why, why, why, why won't it leave me alone?   
  
I don't want to do the story. To do the story there has to be a story to write. That means there has to be a Spider-Man to be seen. That means I have to put it on again.   
  
And I'm trying to hard not to, I really am.   
  
I hate it.   
  
Now more than ever it haunts me.   
  
I nodded.   
  
"Good. I know there's the schedule change since Spider-Man's usually only moving at night, so I'll give you a couple days to get settled."   
  
"No, no, don't worry about it," I said, waiving Sparky off. "I'll start tonight."   
  
"Great," said Sparky with a clap of his hands, "good. Go home now and rest then, you'll be up late tonight. I want a call from you or some kinda note every morning by 10, unless, of course, we have a story."   
  
"Of course." I stood up and Sparky grabbed my hand and shook it.   
  
"Thanks, Peter."   
  
I just nodded again and left.   
  
Damn costume.   
  
I went into the bathroom down the hall.   
  
Damn Spider-Man.   
  
I went into a stall and closed and locked the door.   
  
I hate you.   
  
And I broke down.   
  
I hate you Peter Parker.   
  
I hate what you've become.   
  
***  
  
"How did I ever lose you, Mary Jane Watson-Parker?"   
  
"You had a choice, Peter Parker..."   
  
***  
  
The webbing fires from under my wrist, grabs the building and pulls me towards it. I lash out with my other hand, firing webbing across the street and swinging again.   
  
My arms work without me thinking, this is all instinct now. My mind is racing through thoughts, where I am, who I am, why I continue to torture myself.   
  
The anger builds.   
  
My webbing misses and I tumble. I could catch myself, but I don't, I let myself fall, then, at the last possible moment, I shoot webbing, grab a building and get pulled diagonally away, swinging into an alley, high enough to miss the ground, low enough to hit the dumpster.   
  
I feel the hit, I feel the pain as it runs through my body, feel the ground as I fall to it, and I lie down and start to cry.   
  
I've been doing that too much lately.   
  
***  
  
"...Spider-Man." 


	2. A Rose By Any Other Name

A good man once told me "with great power comes great responsibility."   
  
It took his death for me to fully understand what he meant.   
  
I decided then to use my powers for good and not for profit.   
  
Leap across the alley.   
  
Click.   
  
Swing down this block.   
  
Click   
  
Stick to this wall and happen to look up at the right second.   
  
Click.   
  
Dress up in tights and prance around for the camera.   
  
Click.   
  
Show off my "great powers".   
  
Click.   
  
Whore out my "great responsibility".   
  
Click.   
  
Get paid.   
  
***  
  
Spider-Man   
  
Issue #2   
  
A Rose By Any Other Name   
  
by Jason Kenney   
  
***  
  
The plane followed the Potomac River as it descended toward Regan National Airport. Richard Fisk looked out at the Washington DC skyline and allowed himself a smile.   
  
A new start away from the Kingpin.   
  
But he lost the smile at that thought.   
  
No, not away. One could never be out of reach from Wilson Fisk. And while Wilson did not have a stranglehold on DC as he did on New York, he did have influence and a presence.   
  
And that's what he intended to go after, Kingpin's influence and presence. He already had the plans in motion.   
  
There was only one hurdle left.   
  
Spiderman.   
  
Richard had seen the articles and reports from DC and noted the lack of wallcrawler in New York.   
  
What brought Spiderman to DC he did not know, but Richard had a plan to handle him.   
  
And he smiled again.   
  
***   
  
Sparky sighed as he flipped through the photos. That was not a good sign. Sighing generally implies boredom, frustration, annoyance. Sure it could be pleasure, but you can tell when it's that kind of sigh. I could tell this was not one of them.   
  
"Peter," he said as he rocked his chair, "pictures. Pictures, pictures, pictures."   
  
"Yes, sir," I said back as I just leaned forward in my chair across the desk from him.   
  
"I've got all the pictures I could ever want, Peter," said Sparky as he flipped through the photos I had taken the night before. "I need a story to go with them." He pulled one picture out. "How'd you get this one?"   
  
The picture was Spider-Man clinging to an alley wall and looking at the camera while two guys were neatly bundled in a ball of webbing on the ground below, the sun piercing the horizon in the background.   
  
"Right place at the right time," I said with a shrug.   
  
"Did you ask him any questions?" asked Sparky as he stood up and started to pace behind his desk.   
  
"He leapt away before I could."   
  
"Of course..."   
  
And then he was quiet.   
  
Now, I feel for the guy here, Sparky's a good guy, in the couple years I've been here he's helped me out a lot, and I know he's probably under huge pressure from good ol' J.J. Jameson for some juicy tales of Spider-Man doing something wrong in the nation's capital.   
  
But the man should be happy I'm getting him photos. I don't want this gig, I really, really, REALLY don't. I don't want to set myself up again, I don't want to be the butt of Jameson's inadequacies and compensations therein.   
  
"Peter," said Sparky as he sat back in his chair. "You've been on the Spider-Man story for three weeks now. You taken plenty of photos, hell, photos of times there weren't even reported sightings, but no story. I need words to go with the pictures, Peter, and real words, an article, anyone can report the sightings, everyone does. You got a lot of this guy in New York, can you get me something here?"   
  
I just nodded.   
  
Sparky sighed and stood up again.   
  
"You don't want to cover this, do you?"   
  
And, of course, what do you say to that?   
  
"Yes, of course I do." Sap.   
  
"Because I can switch you," continued Sparky. "I can give you a beat that suits you better, something you're more motivated about."   
  
What he didn't say was understood. Something you can handle.   
  
"Sparky, I'll get you a story."   
  
He just nodded.   
  
"Peter, how have you been doing lately?"   
  
What?   
  
"What do you mean?" I shifted a bit. The boss getting personal, Sparky DEFINATELY was no JJ Jameson.   
  
"How have you been? Are you okay?"   
  
"Sure, yeah, I'm okay."   
  
An uncomfortable silence. Here I am all down and bummed with my life and here's my boss trying to get me to say that.   
  
"Okay, get on outta here and get some sleep," Sparky said as he sat back down and handed me back my photos, "and drop these off on your way out, please, I want to use that one picture."   
  
"Sure," I said standing up and taking the pictures.   
  
"And, Peter," said Sparky as I was about to step out of his office, "if you need anything, let me know."   
  
I nodded. "Thanks, Sparky."   
  
Yep, definitely not JJJ.   
  
***   
  
This was not his first meeting of the day. He had met with others already, all with varying degrees of results, some positive, a few negative, but no failures, not yet.   
  
This one would be the one that paid off.   
  
"You want to what?" Senator Lewis Young leaned forward in his chair and stared hard into Richard Fisk's eyes.   
  
"I want your ear, Senator," said Richard with a smirk, "and I want you to take every cent you received from Wilson Fisk and his cronies and send it back and not pass a single piece of legislation in his favor ever again."   
  
"Mr. Fisk," said Young, "your father is a very well known and upstanding businessman with lots of ties here. All associations are completely legal with him."   
  
"Legal, yes, but are they ethical?"   
  
Young exhaled deeply and leaned back. "What are you getting at, son?"   
  
"Wilson Fisk is known as the Kingpin of crime in New York City. Numerous trials, numerous accusations, even convictions on employees. You associate with him and that shadow looms over you."   
  
"Mr. Fisk, are you hinting at..."   
  
"Senator, I am hinting at nothing, I simply feel it would be in your best interest to distance yourself from my father and his money as soon as possible."   
  
"Mr. Fisk," said Young as he stood up, "you come in here and tell me to turn away an upstanding citizen who wishes to express his opinions and have my ear by telling me I am associating with a criminal? Then you make veiled threats to me? Why should I listen to you, a convicted felon who has a known history of contempt for his father and a desire to take over his financial empire?"   
  
Richard Fisk leaned back and let his smirk pull into a full smile.   
  
"Because, Senator Young, I simply wished to express my concerns as a citizen and constituent. And give you a way out."   
  
"A way out? Mr. Fisk, my door is behind you, I suggest you make YOUR way out."   
  
Richard stood up and pulled an envelope from inside his suit coat, setting it on Senator Young's desk.   
  
"Senator, the information in that envelope details illegal dealings Wilson Fisk is associated with, everything from money laundering to drug running to murder by his own hands, most of this well documented and known by the Government and it's elected officials. This information will make its way into the hands of the press in the next few days and at that time, anyone still associated with Wilson Fisk will be pulled down with him in one of the largest scandals this town has ever seen. You can keep his money and hope this pans out, or you can take the easy way out now and distance yourself."   
  
Senator Young simply stared at Richard Fisk, the envelope lying on the desk between them.   
  
"Mr. Fisk, I have asked you to leave once, I do not like to repeat myself."   
  
Richard smiled and turned to leave.   
  
"Please think about it, Senator, I left my contact information in the envelope."   
  
And he was gone.   
  
***   
  
Like all large cities, Washington DC has it's dark underbelly. The eastern side, being more industrial, tends to be more run down. That on top of the lower buildings makes swinging around hard as hell. Easier to leap, really.   
  
So, I'm leaping around, right, hating myself, you know, the theme as of late.   
  
Then the sense starts acting up, yelling at me like it normally does when it feels like something's wrong.   
  
I stopped on one roof corner and looked around.   
  
Nothing.   
  
What's up, spideysense? False alarm?   
  
Then an explosion tore the roof from under me.   
  
Instinct made me lash out and shoot webbing at a near by wall, the line catching and swinging me right before I hit the ground, just long enough to break my fall but not long enough to keep me from hitting the ground.   
  
I tucked, rolled, and landed on my feet in time to leap on the far wall as rubble from what used to be the building I was standing on rumbled across where I just was.   
  
I looked up to see three folks stumbling around a couple blocks away, and thought that I should probably go check on them, you know, being the good samaratin I am and all.   
  
So, I leap over towards them and just as I'm ready to call out to see if they're okay, one of these guys, oh, you're gonna love this, one of these guys turns around and shoots at me!   
  
Yeah, me, fun lovin' Spiderman's shot at for no reason! Go figure.   
  
So I dodge that bullet and the next and the next and finally shoot out a wee bit of webbing at the gun and hit the gun directly and encase it and his hand in this neat stuff.   
  
It was when the guy started screaming and clutching his hand that I realized I used the contracting webbing on his hand when I should have used the regular stuff.   
  
Maybe it was some spidey-hearing kicking in or something, but I heard the bones in his hand break from a block and a half away.   
  
I leapt over to the gun and pushed him on his back and leaned in real close.   
  
"Now what would happen to be the reasoning behind you shooting at poor ol' me?" I asked as I reached up with both hands and shot REGULAR webbing at the legs of the two other guys who were trying to stumble away, entangling their legs and tripping them up.   
  
"You little bastard," spat the guy I was questioning, literally, a lob of spit hitting my mask. Glad this thing's waterproof. Then the guy's eyes got real big like as he looked behind me.   
  
And then my spidey sense starting telling me something like "hey, spidey guy who possesses me, turn around".   
  
So, I turn around just in time to see this huge, pale white hand backhand me. Head reeling I tumble off to the side and fight the darkness coming at me. Then the owner of the wicked backhand picks me up by the front of my costume and looks right in my eyes.   
  
"This is none of your business, insect," he said, his pale face giving me an ugly look.   
  
"Spider's aren't insects, whitey," I said as I was still trying to get my bearings, "and I've got your nuts in a sling." I shot some regular webbing into the guy's crotch and he dropped me, scrambling to grab at the intruder. Yeah, sure, I could have used the contracting stuff, but that's just mean.   
  
I stumbled and fell as I hit the ground, my head still spinning. Then I finally heard sirens in the distance. Hopefully they were coming here. The big white guy heard them too, his head quickly looking down the road and then back to me.   
  
He clenched his fists, grunted, and then ran away.   
  
Yeah, I have that effect on most people.   
  
"Yeah," I yelled after him, still trying to get my bearings, "that's right, run!" Then vertigo kicked in and I struggled to get the bottom of my mask, pulling it up just in time to throw up. I wiped my mouth and shot constricting webbing at a nearby building, pulling myself to the wall and climbing to the roof where I sat as the police arrived and I cleared my head, all the while wondering what Lonnie Lincoln, better known as Tombstone, was doing in Washington DC.   
  
***   
  
Once my head cleared I made a quick call to the Bugle desk and informed them of some neat little happenings in eastern DC. Then I decided I'd had about enough for the night and swung towards my apartment.   
  
About a block away the senses started tingling.   
  
"Danger, Peter Parker, Danger!"   
  
When I got to the roof of the building across the street from my place I saw the warning.   
  
I was sure I turned out my light when I left earlier this evening, but there they were, bright and shiny and on.   
  
A million different possibilities popped in my head, only too looking remotely pleasing.   
  
I left my lights on.   
  
Or.   
  
MJ was lying in my bed all naked just waiting for me to come home.   
  
I quickly said the second wasn't possible, but a boy can dream.   
  
I went down a couple blocks to where I had some street clothes tucked away for just such an occasion. Not the MJ occasion, just all the others where I don't want them to see Spiderman leaping into Peter Parker's apartment.   
  
Then I went down to the street and walked home.   
  
***   
  
The door was ajar when I stepped to it and that did not ease my mind at all. A quick glance showed that it wasn't forced open so either they had a key or they were good.   
  
Please be the landlady.   
  
I quickly pushed the door open and leapt into the room.   
  
And he was standing there.   
  
"Hello, Mr. Parker, I was wondering when you'd be coming home."   
  
I just stood there a little shocked.   
  
What was he doing here?   
  
"I hope you don't mind," he said raising the glass of wine in his hand to me, "but I helped myself, someone will be dropping off a replacement bottle for you later this week." He took a sip and lowered the glass, a smile on his face, me still standing there.   
  
"Oh, how rude of me," he said, shifting the glass from his right hand to his left and stepping towards me. "My name is Richard Fisk," he said extending his hand, "and I have a proposal for you that will make your career." 


	3. Hook

Two envelopes sat on the table in front of me.   
  
I sat in my chair, glass of water in one hand, bottle of Advil in the other, leaning forward, staring at the envelopes sitting on the table in front of me.   
  
The fading headache a reminder of the run in with Tombstone earlier in the evening.   
  
A conversation repeating itself in my head a reminder of the man who just left my apartment.   
  
Two envelopes addressed to two different people.   
  
Mr. Peter Parker would get one supposedly full of details that would make Mr. Parker's career.   
  
Mr. Spider-Man would get the other supposedly full of details that would make Mr. Man very busy.   
  
Or was there more?   
  
I halfway expected to open the first letter to read "Dear, Mr. Parker, or should I say SPIDER-MAN!!!!" and vice versa.   
  
Pardon me for being paranoid, but I've got this tingling sensation that just won't go away.   
  
Two letters.   
  
From Richard Fisk.   
  
Cliffs Notes background on Richard Fisk:   
  
Son of Wilson Fisk, also known as the Kingpin of Crime, Richard grew up a spoiled brat who resented his father for whatever personal reasons a spoiled brat does, only to try and stab the old man in the back when he was old enough. Wilson, being the loving father that he is, forgives and forgets many attempts by Richard to destroy or take over his operations and that seems to make Richard resent him even more. Last I heard, Richard was once again under his father's heal and busy watching over a laundry mat that was one of Wilson's many fronts.   
  
Present.   
  
Seems Richard had found a new pawn in his game.   
  
I'm being used, I know it. I'm being set up and I'm being used to settle some sort of blood feud between an ungrateful brat and a really, really big man.   
  
And no matter which Fisk wins, Mr. Spider-Man loses.   
  
Big.   
  
Every time.   
  
What's a greatly powered, greatly responsible superhero to do?   
  
Power, responsibility, organ grinder monkey.   
  
You'd think I need a new costume and a name change.   
  
Monkey-Man!   
  
The costume.   
  
Can I keep blaming it for my failures, my shortcomings, my horrible, rotten, damnable luck?   
  
Damn right I can.   
  
Sigh.   
  
I sat and stared at the letters, did a quick mental eeny, meeny, miney, moe, and I grab the one addressed to the alter-ego. My alter-ego, not the costume's.   
  
Dear, Spider-Man,   
  
In three days the President of the United States will be dead...   
  
***  
  
  
  
Spider-Man  
  
Issue #3  
  
Hook   
  
by Jason Kenney  
  
***  
  
Sparky leaned back in his chair as he flipped through the papers. He hadn't said a word since I handed to them to him, which was quite a difference from the ammount of words he had for me when I first saw him.   
  
Like, where was I for today's front page story about a certain wall-crawler fleeing from the scene of a warehouse explosion last night.   
  
JJ Jameson didn't care, he got his story either way. Sparky, on the other hand, was a little disappointed in me, the guy who was supposed to be covering the Spidey beat, missing the whole thing.   
  
But when I told him about the meeting last night...   
  
"These are some lofty allegations," said Sparky, looking to me for the first time since he started reading.   
  
"True, but they're thurough and with enough contact information to where we can follow up."   
  
Sparky nodded. He seemed to be liking this.   
  
But it was only half the news.   
  
There was the other envelope, the one addressed to neither or us, that I chose not to share with him.   
  
And that was the one that was on my mind most of all.   
  
"Peter, this is big stuff," said Sparky, setting the papers down and standing up, starting to pace. "And I know you want to follow up on this. But this is big, the kind of stuff we usually leave up to the veterans, people who are a bit more established. People a bit more..." he paused, but I got the picture.   
  
"Reliable," I said and he didn't even nod.   
  
"I have to talk to JJ and Robbie about this before we run it," he said, stopping behind his desk and picking up the papers again. "I'm going to let you start the research, but I'm sticking Sammy on it with you." Sammy, kid from research, quiet but good. "I want you to be thorough. Follow all of the leads spelled out here, follow anything you get beyond that, I want details, I want them rock solid, and I want them irrefutable. This is something that could break a paper as easily as it could make it. But if you ever, EVER feel like you're stuck, let me know, I can get someone else on it."   
  
I nodded and smiled. Yea, a real story.   
  
And it's not about Spider-Man.   
  
"And don't get your hopes up. We may never run this story, even if you get the best damn proof in the world. It's up to JJ."   
  
"Understood. So I take it I'm off the Spidey beat?"   
  
Sparky nodded and I had to keep my smile from growing any larger.   
  
And for the briefest of moments I thought this was a good thing.   
  
But then I remembered the puppet strings.   
  
And the tingling that had been non-stop since the visit from Fisk.   
  
DANGER, PETER PARKER, DANGER!   
  
Shut up, Spider Sense.   
  
"Follow it up," said Sparky, "but be discrete. Does anyone else have this?"   
  
"Not that I'm aware of."   
  
"Good, two days research, then, I want this on the front page of Friday's paper, if your research is solid."   
  
Friday. Three days from last night.   
  
In three days the President of the United States will be dead...   
  
I nodded but didn't smile as that thought crossed my head.   
  
***   
  
A plane landed at Reagan National Airport like many others do. Three men on board came to Washington DC for the first time in years, for the first time since being driven out by competition.   
  
Wilson Fisk was the competition.   
  
They knew the risks of returning, but the offer presented to them outweighed that risk with more dollar signs and opportunities than they could have hoped for.   
  
The opportunity to show up the competition in his own backyard.   
  
With the help of his own son.   
  
***   
  
He picked up the phone and grumbled a hello.   
  
"Sir, I'm sorry to bother you," said the man on the other end, his voice shaking from his nervousness. "But something's come up."   
  
"What is it, Willis?"   
  
"Well, sir," said Willis with an audible gulp, "a reporter just called here asking about funding."   
  
The man sighed and leaned back.   
  
"And?"   
  
"And, well, sir, I'm not the first person he called. I just got off the phone with Hopkins who spoke with Mills and they both got calls as well."   
  
"Mr. Willis," said the man, "your company is funded by Concerned Americans for a Better America, a lobby that appreciates the efforts of businesses such as yours."   
  
"But, sir, Thomas from CABA called me earlier and said the same reporter had called him and asked a few questions as well."   
  
"Willis..."   
  
"Sir, someone's tracing, someone knows."   
  
Silence for a moment. The man inhaled deeply and spoke on the exhale.   
  
"First off, Mr. Willis, do not interrupt me when I'm talking. Second, if a snoopy reporter is trying to track anything, which I seriously doubt, all they are going to find is a group of citizens who are concerned about their future and their children's future through these uncertain times. Now, do not call me at this number ever again."   
  
And Wilson Fisk hung up the phone with a grumble.   
  
***   
  
In some cases the money trail was obvious. Right out in the open for all to see. Campaign finance laws limit the amount an individual can donate to a campaign, so you get around that.   
  
Wilson Fisk donated X amount of dollars to Lobby A, Lobby A donated X-Y amount of dollars to Lobby B who donated (X-Y)-Z dollars to Candidate C. Repeat with a different lobby in the beginning and it looks legit, you can funnel enough money through where no one knows where to look or it all looks the same and all Candidate C gets from the Kingpin of Crime is a fruit basket with a card wishing him luck.   
  
But that's just a minor violation compared to the good stuff that's not as obvious.   
  
Candidate A is in a neck and neck race with Candidate B. Pictures of naked 6 year old boys in suggestive positions are found in Candidate B's luggage and home during the campaign. Candidate B drops out in disgrace and with charges to boot. But Candidate B was telling the truth when he said those pictures weren't his. They were planted by Person C who was paid off by Person D who received his orders from a man with a vested interest in the outcome of this election because a bill would be up for vote next year that might make or lose him millions.   
  
Oh, and Person C was found dead about a month after the race was over. Ruled a suicide, he had leapt off the balcony of his apartment about twenty stories up. But, whether that was voluntary is up in the air.   
  
This one was a little trickier to follow, but all of the work had been done for me. Richard was thorough in his notes, leaving names and numbers of who to call and who would speak and names of who NOT to call as they would let would blow the whistle on the whole thing.   
  
All I had to do was make the calls and get the quotes.   
  
He did everything but write the article for me.   
  
Sammy was a workhorse, digging up more information faster than I could read it. Perhaps it was his experience, perhaps it was me being cautious because I knew the source and the personal danger behind what we were doing.   
  
Maybe it was that tingling feeling I get all over when something just isn't right.   
  
"Wow, Mr. Parker," Sammy said halfway through our day yet not for the first time, "this is some big stuff. I wish I knew how you got it."   
  
"It's Peter, Sammy," I told him, not for the first time, "and if I told you, I'd have to kill you."   
  
Sammy smiled and kept on working.   
  
But it wasn't entirely inaccurate. The only lie was really that I wouldn't have been the one doing the killing.   
  
And I'm glad Sammy was there because my research wasn't going as well as one would have liked. It wasn't that I didn't know what I was doing, it was all spelled out for me.   
  
My mind was elsewhere.   
  
Another lead I had to follow.   
  
In three days the President of the United States will be dead...   
  
Down to two now.   
  
***   
  
Richard Fisk smiled as the man on the other end of the line verbally squirmed. What he would have given to see the man's face, probably a bright, frustrated and embarrassed red, his shaking hand loosening his tie, a couple Alka-Seltzer probably dropping into a glass of water on his desk.   
  
"Mr. Fisk," said Senator Lewis Young over the phone to the smiling Fisk, "you win."   
  
"No, Senator," said Fisk, "we all win."   
  
There was silence and Fisk imagined the Senator drinking his Alka-Seltzer fizz. His smiled remained wide. Parker was working faster than he had expected.   
  
"Senator, tomorrow there is a bill that will come to the floor for vote concerning a plot of land in upstate New York. You were to have voted for the bill. I want you to speak and vote against it. And I want you to be very, VERY vocal."   
  
Senator Young sighed as if resigning himself to failure. He was stuck, either he follow along his present course and run straight into the scandal wall Richard Fisk was building, or he change his plans and risk the fury of Wilson Fisk. One could kill a career, the other could kill a man.   
  
Martyrdom over failure, he had said to himself as he made the call.   
  
"Okay, the bill will die."   
  
"Very good," said Richard Fisk and he hung up the phone.   
  
***   
  
It was eight before I got home that night. Sammy and I got so caught up in the research that one minute it was one and the next it was seven. Work will do that to you.   
  
Needless to say, I was late for my night job.   
  
The mask was almost on my head when the phone rang.   
  
"Hello?"   
  
"Hey, Tiger."   
  
And I was going to be even later for that night job thing.   
  
***   
  
"In broad daylight?"   
  
"In broad daylight."   
  
Richard Fisk stood at the head of a table surrounded by three other well dressed men of questionable businesses. At the other end of the table sat Lonnie Lincoln who simply leaned back with his eyes closed. He already knew the plan, he was just there for protection.   
  
And as a threat.   
  
"What you're asking of us is pretty risky." Michael Asner was out of Miami and his influence spread all the way up to North Carolina and Tennessee and as far west as New Orleans and the Mississippi. It once was into Washington DC, but that was before Wilson Fisk pushed him out.   
  
"You and I both know risk is what our profession is all about," replied Richard Fisk as he continued to stand with his arms crossed, a smirk on his face.   
  
"But not suicide." Howard Cummings was out of St. Louis and had to scramble to make deals to keep his coast to coast operations running smoothly after Wilson Fisk drove him out of Washington DC and the entire northeast.   
  
"It is only suicide if we fail, which we won't."   
  
"How can you be so sure?" asked Asner.   
  
"Everything is set up perfectly. And, even if one part of the plan fails, it can still be carried out smoothly."   
  
"And if more than one part fails?" asked Cummings.   
  
"Then I leave it up to you all as to whether we continue. You can pull out at that point with no loss of face. But I need all of you to commit to the plan in order for it to work at all."   
  
"I'm in," said the third well dressed man.   
  
Oliver Turner was out of nowhere, he used to be out of Washington D.C., but Wilson Fisk changed all of that, and took one of his eyes while he was at it..   
  
"You can always count on the man with nothing to lose," said Richard Fisk with a smile.   
  
"I have a private charter landing at Dulles two o'clock tomorrow morning, a second landing at Baltimore-Washington around six, each with about twenty guys, another fifty men will be arriving by other means throughout the day and I have at least a dozen here already," said Turner, cracking his knuckles and leaning forwards as he raised his voice. "And I don't care if every damn part fails, I'm in and I will burn this town to the ground if I have to." His one good eye burned with vengeance.   
  
The other two suits stared at Turner as he leaned back in his chair.   
  
"Well, gentlemen," said Richard Fisk, "I couldn't have said it better myself."   
  
***   
  
"So are you busy tomorrow evening?"   
  
"Would you believe me if I said no?"   
  
She laughed a bit, but not because she was amused, just, well, that was how she coped, I guess. "Probably not."   
  
"Well, no, I'm not busy."   
  
"Liar."   
  
"I don't have to be busy every night, especially if it means time with you."   
  
She didn't respond right away and my paranoid mind made a response up for her. "A little late for that, don't you think?"   
  
"That's sweet," she said, trying not to be condescending, but failing. I couldn't blame her. "I'm going to be in town for some fundraiser and could use a date. Know any available, attractive men I might be able to convince to come along?"   
  
"Well, I don't know, let me check my list."   
  
She laughed, this time amused.   
  
"Everyone seems to be busy, would you put up with an available, semi-attractive not-as-young-as-others-but-young-enough-for-you man? I've got one of those."   
  
"I suppose that will do."   
  
"Great, I'll get his number for you."   
  
"Peter."   
  
"MJ."   
  
Silence.   
  
I wanted to say right then that she was right all along, that I was wrong, that I tore us apart, that I loved her more than anything else in existence and I'd give up anything, EVERYTHING just to get back in her arms, her heart, her thoughts, just to have her look at me the way she used to with all of that love and caring and none of the hurt, none of the disappointment, none of the failures and suffering she had to endure at my hands, my selfish, undeserving hands. I wanted to take it all back, make things right again, run away with her, be in love forever, make babies and die happy and old and so in love.   
  
But I didn't.   
  
"So, do you want to go?"   
  
"I'd love to."   
  
***   
  
Wilson Fisk hung up the phone and looked out the window across the city. His city. New York. Close enough to Washington D.C. that he would sometimes imagine he could see it from here.   
  
But now there was a ripple in that view, like a pebble dropped into the calm waters of a pond.   
  
And he did not approve.   
  
He picked up the phone again and dialed a number. The phone rang three times before being answered.   
  
"Hello?" said the other end groggily.   
  
"You know I don't like to be kept waiting."   
  
The voice on the other end cleared and sounded more awake. "Sorry, Mr. Fisk, sir."   
  
"I need to add one more job to the list, Mr. Anderson, and I need it quick and clean."   
  
"Always, Mr. Fisk, sir, I would never give you anything else unless you asked for it specifically."   
  
"Good, you will need to go down to the District of Columbia a day earlier than scheduled. There is a reporter who needs to be silenced by lunchtime tomorrow."   
  
"How does breakfast sound, Mr. Fisk?"   
  
"Excellent, Mr. Anderson." 


	4. Line

Spider-Man  
  
Issue #7  
  
Line  
  
by Jason Kenney  
  
http://www.digitallymystic.com/sites/fiction/ultmarv  
  
***  
  
"You know what I was thinking?" I said to the man who cringed against the wall as I dangled upside down in front of his face. "I was thinking I need a theme song, you know? A little jingle people can remember me by. I've been working on one, wanna hear it?"  
  
The man ran.  
  
"Okay, here goes." I started swinging after him down the alley, "'Spider-Man, Spider-Man, Does whatever a spider can!'"  
  
A quick shot of webbing in front of the bad guy.  
  
"'Spins a web, any size.'"  
  
Silly bad guy gets stuck in the web.  
  
"'Catches thieves, just like flies!' Come on, you should know the rest. 'Look out...'"  
  
"FREEZE!"  
  
"Hey, that's not how it goes."  
  
I looked beyond the webbing and saw the wonderful sight of a police car and a couple of police officers, ready for the bad guy, guns drawn...  
  
Only they were pointing at me.  
  
"I thought New York was bad."  
  
"Come down to the ground and put your hands above you head!" shouted the lead cop as he slowly approached the web holding the villain of the evening.  
  
"Look," I said, "there's your bad guy, he's got the money on him and everything."  
  
"Keep your mouth shut," shouted a second cop who stood back near the cruiser, a radio to his ear as he called for back up.  
  
"Get down on the ground and put your hands where I can see them!" shouted the first cop again.  
  
"Hey, guys, I got better things to..."  
  
The first officer fired.  
  
***  
  
Mr. Anderson and two other men walked into an unmarked garage in New York city. Fifteen minutes later they drove out in a brown clunker from the mid-70s that would probably die somewhere during the trip. Anderson didn't care as long as it got him to D.C. because it and three other men would not be leaving that town alive.  
  
***  
  
Even though he had paid good money for the night, the hooker reached into Sammy's pants pockets, grabbed his wallet and left without making a sound, leaving the lonely young man alone in his apartment.  
  
He was a bad lay, anyways, she told herself as she stepped back onto the streets.  
  
***  
  
DANGER, SPIDER-MAN, DANGER!  
  
My body reacted instantly, one hand shooting out the constrictive webbing high up on the opposite wall, the other shooting regular webbing at the first officer's gun while the rest of my body contorted to dodge a bullet. A snap sounded in my ear as the super-sonic slug missed my head by inches.  
  
I had already launched myself towards the opposite wall before the second officer tried to get off a shot. The same arm that webbed the first cop caught the second right before he pulled the trigger, lucky for him. And me, I guess.  
  
He was hollering for backup and I could hear approaching sirens as I reached the roof.  
  
I snatched my camera which probably, unfortunately, caught the whole thing on film and made a mad dash for the next roof, leaping across the alley and continuing my sprint.  
  
So, my evening was wonderful, how was yours?  
  
***  
  
Ring.  
  
"Hi, you've reached the answering machine of Peter Parker. I'm not in right now so please leave a name and message and I'll get back to you lickity split."  
  
Beep.  
  
"Mr. Parker, this is the gentleman you spoke with last evening. I'm simply calling to inform you that one of the men in the letter I gave you is no longer an issue. Please remove any references to gentleman eight on page eleven and any related information. If this is not done we may be faced with a very dire situation, so I am sure you will be very attentive to this change.  
  
"Best of luck, Mr. Parker."  
  
Click.  
  
***  
  
The sirens were far enough behind me to where I felt I was safe to stop and catch my breath and focus.  
  
They shot at me! Holy crap! I mean, even the New York cops were a little bit better around me than that.  
  
And I didn't even get to finish my theme song.  
  
You know what? Screw 'em. Petty crimes are going to happen whether or not Spider-Man is around and if they don't want me movin' in on their turf, screw 'em.  
  
For now.  
  
I had bigger fish to fry.  
  
The second letter Richard Fisk had left, the one addressed to a particular web crawler we all know and love, was scarce on the details, but did supply me a name and an address to begin with.  
  
Guess I shouldn't expect him to do all of the work for me on both leads.  
  
I made my way to the address, an apartment complex actually really close to my own, climbed to the balcony of his apartment on the eighth floor.  
  
No lights, but the door was unlocked. How nice.  
  
Yeah, yeah, breaking and entering, but I'm a vigilante, I'm supposed to do this kinda stuff for the sake of catching the bad guy, right?  
  
The apartment looked unused. A newspaper on the table was yellow with age and dated for three months before and covered with a fine layer of dust like the rest of the table.  
  
False lead?  
  
I hoped this was right because the alternative was that I was helpless to stop the assassination attempt.  
  
After I walked through the apartment a few times I found good locations for a few bugs and placed small motion detector under the dining table and pointing towards the front door. Thing's so nice and tiny that they'd have to really be looking for it, otherwise it blends in with parts of the table. The wonderful detector would trigger a beeper and let me know when someone came into the apartment. I'm so smart and high tech.  
  
If this was the right place.  
  
And with that I gave the apartment one last look over to make sure there were no signs of my presence and slipped out onto the balcony and into the break of dawn.  
  
***  
  
They arrived in Washington DC as the sun pushed itself above the horizon, barely beating the morning rush hour. The apartment complex was easy to find, it was near one they'd been to before, and Anderson parked the car a block away and pulled out the picture he had, looked at it for a few moments, and then handed it to the guy sitting next to him who looked it over and passed it to the guy in the back.  
  
When he finished with the picture he nodded, handed it back to Anderson and said, "okay."  
  
The three men stepped out of the car and headed toward the apartment complex.  
  
***  
  
I walked into my apartment building in my civvies, having changed a couple blocks away since I had no idea who might be home when I arrive. A quick shower and I'd be headed to work.  
  
Two nights in a row without sleep.  
  
Yea, me.  
  
***  
  
Sammy tore through his apartment looking for his wallet with no luck. He cursed himself under his breath and stood in the middle of his bedroom, hands on his hips, looking around.  
  
"Damn, whore," he said as he went to his dresser, found his extra stash of cash, pocketed it and left.  
  
***  
  
"Is that him?" asked one of the two men into a microphone on his collar.  
  
"Not sure," the man heard Anderson say through his earpiece, "move closer and wait for him to come out."  
  
***  
  
The elevator doors opened and I almost ran right into him.  
  
"Sammy?"  
  
"Mr. Parker! What are you doing here?"  
  
"It's Peter, Sammy, please. And I live here, apartment C."  
  
"Really? I'm in E!"  
  
"Hey, how about that."  
  
What do you say then.  
  
"So," said Sammy, "off to work?"  
  
"Uh, yeah, off to work."  
  
Sammy and I stepped into the elevator as I resigned myself to no shower.  
  
Sigh.  
  
***  
  
"Shit, there's two of them," said the second man over the frequency.  
  
"Both move in," said Anderson, "mugging style, kill the one, hurt the other."  
  
The two men moved as Anderson stood back and watched.  
  
***  
  
DANGER, PETER PARKER, DANGER!!!!  
  
My sense had been screaming for a while, but now it was louder. Something was close. I saw the man approaching out of the corner of my eye and knew right away he was trouble. He picked up speed when he was about ten feet away and raised his arm.  
  
I spun around as a woman screamed, bringing my right hand up and pushing the man's arm and the gun in his hand upwards as he fired into the air. My other hand came in low and hit him hard in the gut, my right elbow coming down on the back of his head as he bent over.  
  
His gun hit the ground as he did.  
  
A second shot sounded out behind me and I turned to see a second man over Sammy, tearing through his pockets.  
  
"Hey!" I shouted, and the man spun and pointed his gun at me, his other hand cradling a wad of money he had taken from Sammy. I held my hands up and the man stepped from over Sammy's body. My senses were still screaming when the first man came down on the back of my head with his pistol.  
  
***  
  
"Son of a bitch," said the man as Peter Parker fell down. He aimed for Parker's head.  
  
"Leave him," said a voice in his ear. The man hesitated but kept his aim. "I said leave him, get out of there."  
  
"Come on!" shouted the other man who was already running away, money falling from his hands.  
  
The man with the gun trained on Parker looked around briefly, saw people cowering and smiled.  
  
Then he ran.  
  
***  
  
Richard Fisk decided to watch the local news for a change and ended up being glad he did. Glad after being horrified.  
  
The image was familiar and at first he couldn't figure out why. Then it hit him.  
  
He'd been there before.  
  
"...at least one man is thought dead, another injured in what appears to have been a robbery in broad daylight. We have no confirmation of names or the condition of the man who was injured, but witnesses are saying that the second man may be seriously harmed."  
  
***  
  
"I'm fine," I said as I waved off paramedics who were attempting to tie me to a stretcher. "It's a bump on the head, give me an ice pack. And where the hell is Sammy?"  
  
"Sir," said a female paramedic as I sat up, "sir, what is your name?"  
  
"Peter," I said, standing up and rubbing the back of my head.  
  
"Here," said another paramedic, handing me an ice pack.  
  
"Peter, said the first one, "Peter, your friend Sammy was shot."  
  
I saw her face. I'd seen that face before. I'd made that face myself, only it was usually hidden by a mask.  
  
And I knew right then that that was no ordinary mugging.  
  
***  
  
"Good morning, sir."  
  
"Is it?"  
  
"Indeed, Mr. Fisk, the morning news is very interesting."  
  
"Ah, and I hope tomorrow's news will be just as interesting, Mr. Anderson."  
  
"If not more so, sir."  
  
***  
  
The Bugle was quieter than usual when I arrived. It wasn't just that it was lunch hour by the time I finished with the cop's questions and made my way to work. By then they had heard about Sammy.  
  
"Peter," said Sparky as soon as he saw me, "can I talk to you for a minute."  
  
I nodded and followed him to his office, smirking and nodding to the condolences of people who acted as if my best friend had just died. I didn't know Sammy well, and if I hadn't had been there, I wouldn't be getting this kind of attention. And I've witnessed worse.  
  
I tossed a roll of film to Sparky as we stepped into his office.  
  
"Spider-man shots from late last night, the cops were taking pop shots at him."  
  
"Excellent," said Sparky as he closed the door. I was hoping the "excellent" was for the photos, not the pop shots. "I'll get it down to development.  
  
"Peter," said Sparky as he walked behind his desk but didn't sit, "I want you to take the day off." I opened my mouth to protest and he held his hands up. "Peter, this story's killed, Jameson wants it buried."  
  
"WHAT?!?!!"  
  
"Jameson looked it over, he spoke with editing and review, they killed it. It's too hot."  
  
"Sparky," I said, trying to get words out, "Sparky, they killed Sammy over this."  
  
"Peter, you don't know that."  
  
"I DO! Sparky, of course this story's hot, it's hot as hell and Fisk is scared shitless. He's putting pressure on us to try and kill..." I stopped as I realized where the pressure was being applied.  
  
All over.  
  
"I'm sorry, Peter."  
  
I looked at Sparky and saw genuine regret and sympathy from him. He knew this story was good, knew I wanted it, and, hell, he wanted it too. Especially with Sammy now gone. But there was nothing any of us could do.  
  
"Go home, son, you've had a rough day already."  
  
I nodded and left his office, ignoring the people trying to offer their condolences, and leaving the Bugle entirely.  
  
***  
  
Richard Fisk smiled and sighed as he saw Peter Parker leave the Bugle. He paid no attention to the man's walk or demeanor, simply pleased to see him still alive. Not that he doubted Parker's ability to survive, just that he wanted personal confirmation.  
  
He though about how everything was still going according to plan.  
  
And in a little over a day, Washington DC would be his.  
  
***  
  
Anderson opened the door to the apartment and motioned for the other two gentlemen to enter before him. They stepped in and looked around at the dusty apartment.  
  
"Man, you really need a maid," said the first man as the second nodded in agreement.  
  
Anderson replied with a silenced shot into the back of the second man's head.  
  
The first man spun around to see the pistol pointed to his head.  
  
"You're right, I think I do need a maid."  
  
The second man was dead before he could say another word.  
  
***  
  
The beeper screamed at me as I walked into my apartment.  
  
Someone was in that other apartment and triggered the motion detector.  
  
It took a lot of effort right then to really get me to care.  
  
I went into my closet and dug through a box, finding the radio that picked up the frequency the bugs I planted in the apartment worked on.  
  
I could have put on the costume and swung right over, ended this thing right there, but morale was low and motivation even lower.  
  
And I still wasn't certain what to do.  
  
So I listened.  
  
Someone commented on needing a maid. That was followed up by the sound of something or someone hitting the ground.  
  
"You're right," said another voice, "I think I do need a maid."  
  
And then a second thump.  
  
I was feeling a bit more motivated.  
  
***  
  
Anderson moved quickly and efficiently, going into a utility closet and pulling out two large duffle bags he had there just for these kinds of events. Each body fit nicely into the plastic lined bags.  
  
He picked up the first one over his shoulder and stepped out of the apartment, locking the door behind him and heading for the elevator. He went out of the complex to his car, opened the trunk, and threw the first body inside.  
  
Then he went inside for the second one.  
  
The second body was lighter so Anderson had an easier time of lifting it. He did a quick look around to make sure he wasn't leaving anything identifying him behind, and stepped out of the apartment, closing the door behind him just in time.  
  
***  
  
I swung onto the balcony and hesitated before opening the door, feeling things out.  
  
The senses were still tingling as they had been for the past day or so but nothing new jumped out at me.  
  
The door was still unlocked.  
  
I slipped inside and was greeted with a different scene than before.  
  
Dust was still all over everything, but now there was blood on the floor and walls as well.  
  
But no body.  
  
But someone was definitely here. And they worked fast.  
  
Damn it.  
  
***  
  
Anderson closed the trunk and looked back at the apartment balcony, seeing Spider-Man leap off and shoot webbing at a near by building, swinging away. He smiled as he pulled out his cell phone.  
  
***  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes, sir, Mr. Fisk."  
  
"I wonder how he found out about that?"  
  
"I'm not sure, sir, but I was unnoticed and I have finished what I needed to do in there. I'm done with the location, sir."  
  
"Then so am I, Mr. Anderson."  
  
***  
  
Web swinging in broad daylight is not good. Not when you're in a really, really bad mood, pissed the cops off the night before, and you're still getting your rep in a kinda new town.  
  
Having been caught up all morning I missed the news reports and press conference from the police stating I was a public menace and wanted for questioning by the police in connection with a number of break-ins as well as assaulting two officers the night before. But the rest of DC seemed to have heard about it.  
  
Nevermind that they fired at me first.  
  
But all I wanted to do was get my clothes, find a dark corner, change, go home and sleep.  
  
Sleep.  
  
But, no, in broad daylight you have to deal with gawkers and rubbernecks and fingers pointing and oohs and aahs and screams and police and whatever else they throw at you.  
  
And all you're trying to do is get home.  
  
Daylight does help me do some things.  
  
While trying to find a place to change I swung down and saved two pedestrians from an on coming bus, a woman from a mugger, returned a wayward balloon to a crying child, and spooked three different flocks of pigeons.  
  
And then I made a huge mistake.  
  
In DC they'll close a street when the Presidential motorcade decides it's going to come down it. If you're a pedestrian or a motorist, you're stopped, great.  
  
If you're webswinging, they can't really stop you as easily, especially if you're unaware of what's going on below you.  
  
The Secret Service has the right to shoot at you if they need to. Anything to protect the President. And I understand that.  
  
So I couldn't blame them with I heard the gunshot. I don't know why I wasn't paying attention to my senses, I was probably tuning them out, but I paid attention now. I quickly looked around and saw what was happening.  
  
A second shot came by as the motorcade sped up, and the second shot was better than the first, but not excellent.  
  
It still cut through my webbing.  
  
I fell and landed on top and grabbed onto of one of the limousines in the motorcade before I could shoot off more webbing. Bad idea. The motorcade sped up faster as my senses screamed.  
  
You know, it was kinda funny to see the look on the faces of nearby cops, Secret Service and pedestrians as they looked at me stuck to the top of the President's car.  
  
I shot out some webbing on a near by building and flailed my free arm to shoot out more, swinging out of there faster than I think I had ever swung before.  
  
So we can add the Secret Service and the rest of America to the list of people out to get me now.  
  
***  
  
Anderson arrived at a home near the Capitol Building and got out of the car and rang the doorbell.  
  
"Hello?" said the lady who answered the door, thinking Anderson's face familiar but not sure from where.  
  
"Hello, Maria, I'm Mr. Anderson, we've met before. I'm here on business."  
  
The lady's eyes widened and she opened the door all the way to let Anderson inside.  
  
"Is the Senator in, Maria?"  
  
"No, Mr. Anderson, we are not expecting him home until later this evening."  
  
"Good," said Anderson as he reached inside his coat.  
  
***  
  
I finally found a place to change and made my way home in time to catch the phone ringing.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"You had me worried there. Though you might have stood me up."  
  
I smiled for the first time today.  
  
"Never. What time is it?"  
  
"Five thirty, where have you been?"  
  
"Sleeping," I lied. "I thought I set my alarm for earlier."  
  
"You weren't working on your big story?"  
  
"No," I said, and she must have noticed the change in my tone.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"I'll tell you all about it tonight."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Positive."  
  
"You still going to be ready by seven?"  
  
"MJ, that's an hour and a half, I'll be ready by six."  
  
"Good, I'll see you at six then."  
  
"I might be wrong, you could walk in on my in nothing but a towel."  
  
"Wouldn't be the first time."  
  
And she laughed, oh, that heavenly laugh, and I could see her face, that smile, her eyes, her hair, and I loved her more than ever.  
  
But how could I say that.  
  
Especially after everything.  
  
"See you at six," she said and hung up.  
  
And as the phone went dead, all I could do is whisper, "I love you."  
  
Silence answered.  
  
***  
  
Richard Fisk entered the warehouse and smiled. He had been quite happy over the last few days and the next few would make him even happier.  
  
But this moment's joy was the site of over one hundred men ready and willing to fight the good fight for the sake of their families and at the detriment of his own.  
  
And that's exactly how he wanted it.  
  
"Mr. Turner," said Fisk to one of the three suits standing at the head of the crowd, "please do not tell me these are all only yours?"  
  
"Would it break your heart, Mr. Fisk, for me to say that they are?" replied Oliver Turner.  
  
"Or that I have at least fifty of my own arriving as we speak?" said Michael Asner.  
  
"And I the same," said Howard Cummings.  
  
Richard Fisk's smile grew impossibly wider.  
  
"Then everything is going according to plan and this time tomorrow, gentlemen, Washington DC will have three kings."  
  
"Don't you mean four?" said Cummings, a look of confusion on his face.  
  
"No, Mr. Cummings," said Fisk as he draped an arm around Cummings's shoulders, "three. I myself will have no part in the aftermath unless called upon. I am merely here to help you all reclaim what is rightfully yours."  
  
"And take a serious jab at your Father," said Asner.  
  
"Why do you hate him so much?" asked Cummings, looking into Fisk's face. Richard looked distant and the smile left his face as his hand tightened on Cummings's shoulder.  
  
"Because I have no father," he hissed through clenched teeth, "and as I am dead to him, he is long dead to me and I aim to make that a reality."  
  
There was a silence among the four men. Fisk's eyes focused back on the now and his smile came back as he loosened his grip on Cummings's shoulder.  
  
"But that is for another time," Fisk said. "For now, you all organize. I have a party to attend."  
  
***  
  
I didn't speak for what felt like an hour but was only a few seconds. Her beauty stunned me as it always does.  
  
"So are we going to just stand out here for an hour or are you going to let me in?" she asked with a smile I would have killed for.  
  
"You look stunning," I said as she came into the apartment and I closed the door. And she smelled wonderful.  
  
"You look wet," she said, her eyes moving up and down me, "and half naked."  
  
I looked to the towel I was holding around my waste. "More like three quarters naked, but I can solve that real quick..." I said as I moved the towel.  
  
And her eyes got wide and she smiled.  
  
"By getting dressed," I finished, tightening the towel and heading towards my room.  
  
And she laughed that gorgeous laugh.  
  
***  
  
"All set, Mr. Fisk, now it's just sit and wait."  
  
"Good."  
  
And Wilson Fisk smiled for the first time in days.  
  
***  
  
An hour with the most beautiful woman in the world seems like minutes, but seven came faster than I would have wanted and we stepped into one of the largest limousines I had ever been in.  
  
"Compliments of the agency," she said as the chauffer closed the door behind us.  
  
"Ooooooo...fancy," I said. "So what's the occasion?"  
  
"Fundraiser for the Concerned Americans for a Better America," she said as she pulled out a compact and played with her makeup. "Some non-profit that builds parks and funds Neighborhood Watch programs and the such." I nodded but knew better. The name was familiar. From research. "Do I look okay?" she asked, looking at me.  
  
Oh, God, yes.  
  
"Of course."  
  
"What a standard reply, Mr. Parker," she said, poking me in the arm, "do I look superficially, super model okay?"  
  
"Oh," I said, "no, you missed on that superficially part. Need a botox injection right about..."  
  
She poked me again and smiled.  
  
"Remind me never to ask you for an unbiased opinion, Mr. Reporter."  
  
"You say that every time."  
  
"Speaking of which," she said, putting the compact away, "what happened to your big story?"  
  
Oh.  
  
"It's a long story," I said, "I'll fill you in on it later."  
  
She looked at me out of the corner of her eye and smirked. "Liar."  
  
And we left it at that.  
  
***  
  
Richard Fisk smiled as the chauffer opened the limousine door and he stepped out.  
  
The Concerned Americans for a Better America fundraiser was just getting started and Richard Fisk in a very charitable mood.  
  
***  
  
A private plane landed at Reagan National Airport just outside of Washington D.C. One man emerged from it and looked around before stepping down the steps to the waiting entourage below.  
  
He wasted no time getting into the waiting limousine, he was already late for a function he did not want to miss.  
  
And he smiled again.  
  
***  
  
Ah, to be on the other side of the camera. Not that they were pointing at me. No, they were all pointing at the gorgeous woman attached to my arm.  
  
Touching my arm.  
  
Touching me.  
  
The crowd that lined the red carpet hollered out questions, most of them a jumbled mess of three or four questions shouted at once, a couple coming through.  
  
One asking who I was.  
  
We'd pause for the obligatory shots. MJ knew more about this than I did, but it was pretty much walk three paces, stop, look to one side, smile, the other side, smile, repeat.  
  
I knew from being on the other side what this dance was all about.  
  
The camera was your audience, it was the only way the public was going to see you, and you did not want to piss off the camera or the man behind it.  
  
"Mr. Parker," someone shouted out, getting my total attention, mainly because who the hell here knew who I was? "Peter Parker," the reporter repeated as she held out a microphone and a camera behind her caught my face, "can you give us any details about your research into illegal political contributions by the Concerned Americans for a Better America?"  
  
Do what?  
  
"Um... what?" What a smart response, I told myself after I said it.  
  
"Have you been looking into the political activities of CABA and what have you found so far?"  
  
Good Lord.  
  
"No comment," I said, looking to MJ who was smiling to the other side. Gotta move, I was thinking. The spidey sense kicked it up a notch.  
  
"Mr. Parker," yelled another voice, "are you aware of any connection with your investigation and this morning's death of Bugle Staffer Samuel Jenkins at your apartment complex?"  
  
MJ heard that one and turned to me, wide eyed. Yeah, I hadn't told her about my day yet.  
  
"Uh, no, no I am not."  
  
"Mr. Parker," shouted another voice, and then another. I looked to the first woman who called my name, the one who opened the floodgates. And she smirked.  
  
This was a set up.  
  
I turned back to MJ and she must have read my face. With a nod, she looked back to the crowd with a smile and we went inside without anymore pauses.  
  
***  
  
Richard Fisk smiled as he saw Peter Parker enter the room with a stunning redhead on his arm. He cocked an eyebrow as he saw her for the first time in person.  
  
He mentally gave Parker a bit of credit for good taste but then took him down a couple notches for letting such a fine woman go.  
  
He finished his conversation with the Congressman from New Hampshire and started to make his way towards the couple.  
  
***  
  
"Are you alright, Peter?" asked MJ as we walked into the crowd.  
  
I nodded, my senses still screaming, my eyes darting around for anything that might be coming at me.  
  
Someone leaked something to the press, and they knew.  
  
And here I am in the hornet's nest.  
  
Senator Gregory Davis of Illinois, received fifty thousand dollars to his campaign after killing a bill in committee that would have broadened FBI investigation powers in certain areas of organized crime, one area of which was run by the Kingpin.  
  
Representative Rebecca Smith of Maryland, in her last bid for reelection she received information on her opponent's infidelity and used it to come from behind in the last month of the campaign. Her opponent was a retired detective out of New Jersey who chalked up one of the largest money laundering busts in the past 20 years. Although the evidence was inconclusive, many believed that the operations were headed by the Kingpin.  
  
Senator Robert Phillips of New Jersey, he won against a three time incumbent after evidence emerged of the incumbent's weekly visits to a recently charged prostitute who specialized in the rich and famous. What wasn't known was that Senator Phillips was also a customer, but that was kept under wraps by someone and used to manipulate. The incumbent, who had been initially and reelected thanks to heavy contributions from the Kingpin, had voted against various measures that Wilson Fisk was known to have wanted.  
  
Senator Michael Singer of California, who's opponent died under mysterious circumstances the day before the election. Senator Singer is a former employee of one of Kingpin's enterprises.  
  
And the list goes on and on.  
  
"Peter?"  
  
I looked to MJ and my heart broke at the look on her face. She was worried. I was worrying her.  
  
I smiled.  
  
"It's okay," I said.  
  
"Liar."  
  
"I'll tell you all about it later tonight, okay?"  
  
She smirked and said, "okay," and that was that.  
  
"Mr. Parker," said a voice behind us, and I turned around, "how good to see you again."  
  
And there was Richard Fisk with one of the biggest shit-eating grins I'd ever seen.  
  
***  
  
The man stepped from the limousine and smiled to the crowd and flashes.  
  
Ah, D.C. So much like New York, yet so different.  
  
The smiled as he walked down the red carpet and into the Concerned Americans for a Better America fundraiser.  
  
He was feeling very charitable this evening, and would have to share his joy with family.  
  
***  
  
"Ms. Watson," said Richard Fisk as he kissed the back of MJ's hand, "what a pleasure it is to meet you. You are even more beautiful in person."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Fisk," she said with a smile.  
  
"Please, call me Richard," he said. "Peter, so sorry to hear about the story being pulled. Perhaps there is something I can do to help you with that?"  
  
"You're too kind, Mr. Fisk," I said, attempting a smile, "but you have done too much as it is."  
  
"I feel as if I have not done enough, Peter. Let me see what I can do."  
  
"Yes," said a voice from beside us, "let us all see what you can do, Richard."  
  
Wilson Fisk stood as large and foreboding as ever, smiling a grin stolen from a shark, his eyes betraying his face with an anger that burned deep. The man's bulk did nothing to diminish his appearance and the knowledge that it was all muscle made him seem even larger.  
  
"Mr. Parker," said the Kingpin as he extended a hand to me, "a pleasure. I have heard you were researching into this fine organization so you must realize how surprised I am to see you here, in the hornet's nest as it were." He chuckled as if it were a joke.  
  
"To be honest, Mr. Fisk," I said as we shook hands, his grip strong on mine, "I had no idea what organization was throwing this fundraiser until I was on my way, so it seems I have bumbled into the hornets nest."  
  
"Indeed," said the Kingpin as he turned his attention from me. "And Mary Jane Watson, you look absolutely splendid."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Fisk," MJ replied as the Kingpin kissed her hand.  
  
"I am sorry I can not stay and chat," he said as he released MJ's hand, "but it is very rare that I come into town and find all of these people in one place. If you would excuse me..."  
  
And he stepped away.  
  
After only thirty seconds or so Wilson Fisk had done exactly what he intended to do.  
  
Scare the shit out of me.  
  
But, more importantly, he put the fear of God in his son.  
  
Richard Fisk stood with a blank face, a glare of pure hatred into his father's back. He was oblivious of where he was, intent on focusing on his hatred and the man who was its source.  
  
I grabbed MJ's arm and turned us away from him and we walked into the crowd.  
  
"What was that all about?" whispered MJ, shaken a bit herself from the experience.  
  
"Tell you about it later tonight?" I said with a smirk and a shrug.  
  
She looked at me, looked into me, and knew something more was up. She could always do that. She knew me better than I knew myself.  
  
"Let's talk now," she said as she put her arm through mine and started leading me toward the door.  
  
"What about the fundraiser?" I asked, not really concerned about it, but it seemed like the right thing to say.  
  
"They already have my money," she said as we kept walking, "what do they care if we leave early. And I think you need to get out of here."  
  
"What?" I said as she nodded towards two big gentlemen heading my way. Who thought they'd have bouncers at a political fundraiser?  
  
They reached us before we reached the door.  
  
"Mr. Parker," said one with a shaved head.  
  
"Yes," I said as we stopped for the two of them.  
  
"I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you to leave," said the second man who had a buzz cut. They looked like they could be brothers.  
  
"We were actually on our way out," said MJ with a smile. "Thank you for the lovely evening."  
  
We paused in the foyer as our limo was hunted down and when it arrived we made our way back down the red carpet, ignoring the questions, the flashes, he cameras and their handlers, into the back of the limo, and we were gone.  
  
***  
  
"Sparky," I said into my cell phone as the limo made it's way back to my apartment, "the story's breaking without us."  
  
"I know Peter, I know," he said back as I heard him moving around. He was at the Bugle, trying to handle what was becoming an unstoppable situation. "JJ still hasn't gotten back to me, Robbie's on our side, we just have to convince Jameson."  
  
Traffic towards my apartment was worse than usual for a Thursday evening, and soon I saw why. Vans and cameras all over the place.  
  
I knocked on the window of the limo to get the driver's attention.  
  
"Just drive on by," I said, "don't stop."  
  
He nodded and kept going.  
  
"Sparky, the press is at my door."  
  
Sparky grunted. "The media's infatuation with itself."  
  
Mary Jane sat next to me, looking out the window, not saying a word. I still hadn't filled her in on what was going on.  
  
"Look," I said to Sparky, "I'm coming in, I'm going to sit down and write that story."  
  
"We still don't have a guarantee..."  
  
"Sparky, you and I both know that if this story's killed now it's going to spell trouble. This story's going to be told with or without us..."  
  
"And if it's without us we'll be questionable for ignoring it when we had all the facts, I know, I know. Peter, I've got two other guys on the story, Robbie's got a few folks working on it in New York. If Jameson agrees on running with this it will get published tomorrow morning."  
  
"But without my name on it."  
  
"You'll be in the byline, and the press will still hound you."  
  
"How did they know?" I said, not for the first time this evening and not really to anyone specific.  
  
"Peter, do you have a place to stay."  
  
I looked to MJ who kept looking out the window. "Yes."  
  
"Good," Sparky said, "go there and lay low, I'll call you with updates. Everything's going to be fine, son."  
  
"Sure," I said, and hung up.  
  
And then silence for a couple moments. MJ put a hand on my knee.  
  
"So are you going to tell me what's going on or are you going to sulk without me?" she said.  
  
So I told her.  
  
***  
  
There were a few camera crews at the hotel where MJ was staying, but the place had a garage attached so they were easily missed. Seems someone got wind of my being on MJ's arm at the fundraiser and put people at my place and her's to be safe.  
  
Smart.  
  
It's weird being on the other end of the camera and the pen. I mean, I deal with it all the time as Spider-Man, but Peter Parker has no idea what to do in this situation. I'm supposed to be taking the pictures and asking the questions, not the other way around.  
  
And why would they care about a reporter anyway, why aren't the covering the real story?  
  
Unless they don't know it.  
  
Or, unless I am the real story.  
  
"Fisk did this, I know it," I said as we got to MJ's suite.  
  
"Which one?" she asked as she opened the door.  
  
"Richard. He heard the story was killed, and how do you bring a story back than make it's death a story. He leaked that the Bugle had something, that I had something on CABA and they were all over that. How the hell did he know I'd be there?"  
  
I stopped. My apartment. He was there when I wasn't. Free reign. Bugs, cameras, any and everything.  
  
The spider sense non-stop for the last 48 hours.  
  
Oh Lord.  
  
"I think he knows who I am." 


	5. Sinker

"Is it true?" asked Howard Cummings as Richard Fisk stalked into the warehouse office that was the center of operations for what Fisk had hoped to be his defining moment. "Is the Kingpin in D.C.?" asked Michael Asner.

Fisk walked past the three men and to his desk where he stopped with his back to them. He paused a moment, rested his hands on the desk and took a deep breath.

With a scream of rage he threw the telephone off his desk and back at the three men who parted. The phone shattered against the back wall.

Richard Fisk tugged on his suit coat and brushed off his shoulders.

"The plan has not changed?" said Oliver Turner, more as a statement than a question.

"Precisely," said Fisk as he attempted a smile. "And if my father is there, all the better, all the sweeter."

"Peter, think about this for a moment."

I was half way to being Spider-Man and MJ was pleading with me.

"You think Richard Fisk knows who you are and you think he leaked the Bugle story to the press, what's to stop him from leaking the Spidey link? And what are those reporters to think when Spider-Man leaps off the balcony of the suite of the woman he was seen with earlier this evening."

"Then I'll take the stairs and use the roof."

"Peter, please."

"Mary Jane..."

She was almost crying. On the verge of it. I was hurting her. Again.

"MJ, I have to do this," I said, raising my hand to touch her cheek.

She pulled away.

"I know," she said as the first tear fell.

She left the bedroom and me alone to finish dressing.

A dusty apartment exploded in a ball of flames.

Wilson Fisk entered the warehouse with the look of death on him. No one dared approach him or the two men who flanked him as they walked through the warehouse towards the office in the back.

The three men were surprised then the door opened and even more surprised at the man who entered.

"Good evening, gentlemen." Wilson Fisk stood in the doorway and smiled briefly, losing it as quickly as he had it. He stepped into the office, looking momentarily at the broken phone on the floor, and then walking past the three men and behind the desk where he sat. One of the two men who flanked him through the warehouse walked to a corner of the office while the other closed the door. "Imagine my surprise when I was informed that three of my favorite native sons had come home. Imagine my greater surprise when I found out it was at the invitation of my own flesh and blood."

The three men stood and stared at Wilson Fisk as he rocked back and forth in his chair.

"And then, oh what a feeling I had when I heard that they dared to plot to take what is rightfully mine. What a show of force that takeover was to have been."

The three men remained silent.

"I was so taken aback I had to come see this for myself."

He stood up.

"As I'm sure you all are painfully aware by now, you have failed. There will be a change of power in Washington D.C. but there will be no war."

Two silenced shots, one from each of the Kingpin's escorts, and Michael Asner and Howard Cummings fell to the ground, dead.

"Either I took your only good eye," said Wilson Fisk to Oliver Turner who glared at the Kingpin with his one good eye, "or your greed made you blind and sloppy."

"And yours will be the end of you."

Wilson Fisk reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box

"I have no need for this anymore," he said, handing the box to Turner. "Or this," he said, gesturing around. "Washington D.C. is a mess, it's a horrible town to do business in, and I tire of it. You can have it back, it and all of its headaches."

Turner looked to the box in his hands and back to Fisk, unsure what to say or do. Here was the man he hated, was willing to die fighting, and he was giving him the city he was about to die fighting for.

Giving him the city.

"I'd rather earn it," said Turner, holding the box out to Fisk, unsure what it was, but certain of it's symbolism as the passing of the torch.

"Keep it from my son," said Fisk, gently pushing Turner's hand back towards him, "and then you will have earned it."

Wilson Fisk left the office with his two men in tow. As they walked through the warehouse Turner came after them.

"There is a catch, Fisk, and I know it!" he shouted to the three men leaving.

"Nothing is free in our business, I've been around long enough to know that and it didn't take me losing an eye to figure it out. There's a catch, and I'll find it!"

He followed Fisk and his guards to the door.

"I'll find it and you will pay for it, Fisk, you will pay until you're dead and then your family and your empire will pay!"

Wilson Fisk stepped out the door and his two men followed.

"I WILL GET YOU IN THE END, WILSON FISK!" Turner shouted as he leapt out the door to yell at the three men.

Lights flashed on all around the warehouse, white spotlights, red and white sirens, men silhouetted by the blinding brilliance of a police bust.

It wasn't every cop Washington D.C. that surrounded that warehouse, but it was pretty close.

Oliver Turner raised his hands and dropped the box Wilson Fisk had given him as an officer announced for everyone in the building to come out with their hands up. Turner glanced at the ground and the box that had opened when it fell.

And he saw that Wilson Fisk had returned his eye as it stared up at him from the sidewalk.

Senator Lewis Young stepped into his home with a curse, wondering where his damn maid was and why she hadn't answered the door after he rang the doorbell five times. None of the lights were on in the house, which made it additionally awkward.

After a quick check of the downstairs Young went upstairs, all the while calling out her name, thinking that maybe she had fallen asleep.

"Maria?" he shouted as he reached the top of the stairs and looked into her room.

No one. He went towards the master bedroom and paused. Footprints to and away from the room, footprints the color of rust. He slowly opened the bedroom door and almost fainted at the sight.

Maria and two men laid tangled in his blood soaked bed, all dead. A gun was on the floor a few feet away.

Upon later inspection by Senator Young and the police drug paraphernalia was found on the bed stands, the floor, and in the bed, needles and bags.

A bloodied suit and shoes was found in a garbage bag in a dumpster a block and a half from the Senator's house, the clothing belonging to the Senator himself.

And the gun had his prints all over it.

Senator Lewis Young quickly learned the price he paid for betraying the Kingpin, but it was too late.

Richard Fisk screamed with rage as he threw the remote at the television. It uselessly bounced off the set and Fisk jumped to his feet, grabbing the television and tearing the cord from the wall, tossing the set through the sliding glass doors and with just enough force to get it over the balcony railing and send it falling to the sidewalk below.

Wilson Fisk had trumped him in all areas.

Asner and Cummings were dead, Turner and his army arrested, the D.C. police and the FBI content in believing they had removed the last remnants of organized crime from the streets of Washington D.C. But Richard knew they were all in his father's pockets.

Senator Lewis Young was arrested for murder, destroying Richard's only inroads into the Kingpin's political stranglehold.

But he had one last hope holding out.

The story that would break everything.

And more.

Richard Fisk turned and ambled to the mini-bar for what was not his first drink of the evening.

"You used me, Fisk," said a voice from behind him.

And he turned to see his last hope standing on the balcony.

"You're right," replied Richard Fisk, "I used you and you fell for it, hook, line and sinker. You did better than I could have imagined. Though, that's wrong, it did take a little manipulating. But I kinda like the route it's taken, don't you, Mr. Parker?"

He raised his glass to his lips and I shot webbing to stick it to his face. I leapt across the room and on top of him, knocking him down and pinning him while I leaned into his face.

"I couldn't care less what your father has done to you, if he beat you as a child, if he spit at you, if he shoved a broom up your ass or simply didn't buy you a pony when you wanted it, I DON'T CARE!" His eyes said he wanted to talk, but I continued. "You used me, you used me bad, and you used me hard. Now I have a dead coworker, a ruined career, a number of politicians ruined, an entire mob organization gunning for me and a woman I care very deeply about concerned about my well being more than usual. But most of all, you have put her at risk, and I swear to God, I swear with every fiber of my being, if any harm comes to any part of her body or any of her possessions or anything she even remotely thinks about, I will fuck you up so bad your dad will look like fucking Santa Claus."

I grabbed the webbing on his face and tore it off. Imagine duct tape only twenty times as sticky and then some.

"Speak."

"I own you."

"Do tell."

"I own you, Parker, I have you square in my pocket and there's nothing you can do to change that," said Fisk with a grin that looked evil with his lips bleeding from the webbing being torn off. "I own you, you dance when I tell you to, you do what I tell you to when I tell you to, and you won't complain or you'll have every damn network so far up your ass you'll be coughing up Larry King."

I stepped off of Fisk and picked him up, throwing him across the room, through the already broken glass door and onto the balcony.

He tried to stand up and fell as he pushed his hands onto the broken glass.

So I helped him up.

And over the rail.

"There was no assassination plot," I said shouted as I held him out, ten stories up, "WAS THERE!"

Fisk smiled. "You can't be so sure of that, can you?"

"It was a distraction, an attempt to put me out of the way or your little power play. YOU USED ME!"

Fisk continued to grin.

"Fisk," I said through clenched teeth as I held him out, ten stories up, "do not fuck with me."

"Where's the witty banter, Parker?" said Fisk with a grin. "Where's the jovial Spidey who's quick with the wit?

"Where's the responsible superhero?"

I held him there for a moment.

And then I threw him back into the apartment.

He landed by the bar where I had first leapt on him. He laughed through the winces as he pulled himself off the ground.

"And the story, oh, I'm not finished with it yet," he said, his sentences spattered with grunts of pain as he moved his cut hands. "That thing will go on and on, we'll have a scandal like no other. And you will play it out for me, all on the front pages."

"And you made sure of that, didn't you?"

"I had to pull some strings to counteract the Kingpin's meddling that initially killed the story, but it's going to run now. Your reputation, more importantly, the Bugle's reputation is riding on it. It will run, and run, and run until no one is untouched.

"I still win."

"And you were a fool to let that woman go, Parker." That got my attention. "Mary Jane is a fine looking woman, it'd be a pitty if something were to happen to her, given that you care about her so much.

"You're mine, Parker, you have been since I first set foot in your apartment. Everything you own, everything you have, everything you hold dear, it's because of me, because I do not take it away from you. And I can."

I shot webbing across the street and leapt off the balcony before I killed him.

"I OWN YOU!" he shouted after me as I swung away as fast as I could.

"I own you," said Richard Fisk in little over a whisper after shouting it once. And he laughed again.

And his laughter turned to tears.

He sank to the floor, his back pressed against the mini-bar, his stare out though the shattered door and onto the balcony.

Shattered.

It was so perfect. The perfect set up.

Washington D.C. would have been out of the Kingpin's pocket and become a thorn in his side.

It WAS so perfect.

"Looks like I missed the party," said a voice from the doorway of Fisk's apartment. He stiffened as he heard it, knew who it was, why he was here.

The man walked across the room and to the doorway to the balcony, looking around at the shattered door.

Anderson kicked a couple of shards of glass still hanging on off the doorframe and then turned to look at Richard Fisk.

"Quite a mess you've made, Richard." Anderson walked across to the mini-bar and stood in front of Richard. "I'm sure your father is very disappointed in you." He crouched down and leaned into Fisk's face. Fisk continued to start beyond Anderson. "If your father found out I was doing this he'd kill me. After everything you've done to him, he still refuses to have you offed. Must be some fatherly thing."

Anderson stood up and went to the bar and poured two glasses of bourbon. He dropped a tablet in one, turned and handed it to Fisk.

"One last drink, Richard," said Anderson as he raised his glass.

Fisk brought his focus back to the here and now, looking at the glass in his hand and then to Anderson.

"It will be painless?" asked Fisk, his eyes red with tears.

"They say is it," said Anderson, "but I've never been on the receiving end so I wouldn't know for sure."

Fisk lifted his glass and touched it to Andersons.

And the two men drank.

"How did he know," said Fisk to no one in particular as he tossed his empty glass to the side.

Anderson stared at the ice in his glass.

"There was an insider, Richard, there is always an insider."

"Lonnie," whispered Richard Fisk as his stare focused on something beyond the room.

And the two men sat in silence until Richard Fisk was dead.

DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!

I held my head as I ran, the senses screaming. I leapt onto another building, stumbled as I landed and fell onto the roof and lay there.

And I cried.

Damn this power.

Damn this responsibility.

Damn the headaches and the heartaches and the suffering it brings me and everyone else.

The senses continued to scream, their calls turning into laughter, mocking me, beckoning me, grasping me, refusing to let me go.

A reactionary way of life is no way to live.

I have no control.

My senses control me, my job controls me, my enemies control me, everything that I want to be free of rules my life.

When what I want is right there something pulls me away.

All I want is right there, waiting.

Tug of war for the soul of Peter Parker.

One side is hated, feared, loathed, bashed, hunted, all of that for simply trying to do right in the world.

One side is loved, comforted, supported, happy, simply for being there for one person and enjoying themselves.

Why is this decision so hard?

With great power...

"I DON'T WANT IT ANYMORE!" I shouted into the night. "I don't want it..."

Wilson Fisk smiled at the man in his hotel suite.

"That's big responsibility," said the man as he exhaled cigar smoke.

"It's a big city with big men and big ideas," said Fisk, "but it's too big for me to carry with New York. I need someone who's trustworthy and who knows what they're doing. You've proven to be trustworthy, but can you do it?"

"Mr. Fisk," said the man with a wide grin, "I believe I can do this for you."

"Very good, Mr. Lincoln, very good indeed." Wilson Fisk stood up and extended his hand. "Welcome to the family."

And Tombstone shook Fisk's hand and became the King of D.C.

She answered the door when I was in mid-knock, her eyes red from crying and being up all night.

"Peter?"

I grabbed her, pulled her close, and kissed her harder than I had kissed her in over five years.

And she didn't push away.

Our lips pulled apart and I rested my forehead on hers, my eyes remaining closed, my thoughts trying to clear.

"MJ," I said and then swallowed and opened my eyes, looking deeply into hers, "I'm tired."

Richard Fisk's apartment exploded in a ball of flames.

The Daily Bugle decided to go with the story, but not before it was heavily edited by the board. The final result was an article that exposed possible campaign finance abuses by the Concerned Americans for a Better America and the politicians with the knowledge of these abuses, but any and all ties with the Kingpin were conveniently overlooked.

When asked why the story wasn't run before, publisher J. Jonah Jameson was quoted as saying, "The Daily Bugle takes great pains to assure the quality of it's reporting. We strive to give the public the straight facts it deserves and up until yesterday we were not completely sure of the facts presented to us. So, we did not drag our feet as some of you would like to think, but we double and triple checked our facts. So go cover a real news story."

And they had one soon enough.

The President was scheduled to give a speech at ten thirty in the morning in downtown Washington D.C. to promote his new proposal to help the homeless. Why he chose a random park in downtown D.C. is up in the air. The Secret Service tried to advise him against it, the DC Police tried to advise him against it, but he wanted it, so it happened.

On a Friday morning, that was going to do wonders for traffic.

The crowd started forming at eight, gathering around the dais and podium set up for the big speech. Protestors stood across the street from the park with their pickets and slogans, most of them completely unassociated with the issue at hand, simply there because there was a ready made audience waiting for their cause.

Secret Service agents were poised on the rooftops surrounding the park and stood on the dais and along the edge of the crowd. Others mingled in the crowd dressed as spectators. D.C. Police stood around the crowd, ready for anything.

At ten thirty a motorcade approached and stopped along the park behind the dais where a path led to the stage. The Secret Service and police tensed as the door to the presidential limousine opened and the President stepped out, waiving to the crowd as he approached the dais.

"We got someone on a roof," screamed a Secret Service agent through their earpieces as the President climbed the dais. "Northwest, he's in red and running."

A few sharpshooters turned their attention from the crowd to the man on the roof as he sprinted toward the edge of the building and leapt off.

"GUN GUN GUN!"

"Someone in the crowd's got a gun, front of dais."

The other sharpshooters searched for the man in the crowd as the others watched the man in red falling to the ground.

The man in red seemed to reach toward the building across the park and something shot from his hand, grabbing the building and pulling the man through the air over the park. His other hand pointed at the man in the crowd with the gun, shooting something at him as well.

The man with the gun attempted to pull the trigger as the webbing encased his hand and the gun. The backfire caused him to scream and the panic made him run.

Spider-Man leapt on the man and knocked him to the ground as the crowd parted, bending close to the man's face.

"You should never point a loaded gun at anyone," I said to the would be assassin. He tried to spit at me but I simply stood up and watched the loogie move up and then back down onto the man's face. "Good aim."

"FREEZE!" Police and Secret Service agents surrounded the two of us with their guns drawn.

"Could you do me a favor?" I asked the man I was standing on as the police closed in on us. "Say, 'I think I do need a maid' for me. Pleeeeeaaasse?"

The man's wide eyes said it for me.

"Yeah, I thought so." I lifted up my arms and the approaching law enforcement folks stopped dead in their tracks. I leaned forward again. "Which Fisk are you working for?"

The man smiled.

"Which one's still alive?" he whispered.

Alive?

My spidey-sense was screaming to look out, but it had been doing that all week. At a certain point you just take it for granted, you know? But I should have been watching his other hand but I was too intent on grilling him. I didn't pay it any attention until a gunshot tore into the man's head. I jumped up as blood sprayed me and I looked around.

The man's free hand fell to the ground, dropping the knife it had gripped.

I looked up and saw the police with their guns still drawn.

"Um, guys, I just, you know, saved the President's life."

They kept their guns drawn. A Secret Service agent stepped forward and put his gun away. He stopped about three feet from me and put one hand to his ear, listening in on something no one else could pick up.

"Sir, if you could please come with me."

He turned from me and started to walk away. The police looked like they had no idea what was going on while the other Secret Service agents formed up around me, trying to herd me after the first guy.

So I followed.

The first agent was stopped by a police officer and they exchanged a few words which I did hear.

"This... thing is wanted in connection to numerous break ins and criminal activities througout this city," shouted the cop, pointing at me, so I assume I was the 'thing' he was discussing.

"Sir, an attempt on the President's life has been made, this is now in our jurisdiction and we are taking this gentleman into custody," said the agent, and he turned from the cop and walked on as if that was the end of the argument.

And I followed.

The agent stepped into a sedan and I approached it as well.

My spider sense screamed and I was listening this time.

Instinct took over and I shot webbing and was off the ground before they could react. One more shot to the side and I was swinging.

No one dared to shoot at me.

And I was gone.

"I TOLD YOU!" screamed the cop at the Secret Service agents who only watched Spider-Man swing away.

The first agent remained in the sedan and nodded, showing no signs of any emotion. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.

The man on the other end picked up on the first ring.

"Sir," said the agent, "I'm afraid he got away."

The man on the other line sighed.

"While I am disappointed, I supposed it will do."

"My apologies sir," said the agent, "though, I do believe the operation was a complete success."

"Complete success? No, probably not, but hopefully the fear of God has been put into the President and he'll prove more cooperative in the future.

"Good day, Agent Nichols."

And Wilson Fisk hung up the phone.

"You have a greater responsibility to them than you do to me," she had said to me the night before as we lay in each other's arms. "You have been given something so great and so good, that I couldn't possibly ask for it to be only for me."

"What if I wanted to give it to only you?" I said, looking into her eyes.

"You're better than that, Peter," she said with a smile that couldn't hide the pain in that truth. "You couldn't do that even if you wanted."

"And I do want to."

"I know you do. But, Peter, I knew about this before we were married. I knew the commitment I was making was not only to you but to your power and responsibility as well. I just didn't realize that I couldn't be there for you as much as you needed."

"MJ, don't..."

She pressed a finger to my lips.

"Peter, you didn't fail me, I failed you. I tried to change you and keep you for myself, I was selfish."

"No, MJ, that's not selfish, that's what a normal relationship is."

"But people aren't normal," she said, kissing my cheek, "we aren't normal."

"I'm not normal."

"No, you're not, you're better than them, all of them. And you can't let them control you."

"Then why can't I give this up?"

"Because they want you to, Peter. And even if you didn't have these powers, you'd be trying to save the world, and you know it. It's not them controlling you, it's not the powers controlling you, it's not the costume controlling you, it's your heart.

And we lay there until the sun came up and with it the new day, the day I had been anticipating since an envelope was opened in my apartment.

"Go save the world, Tiger, but only if you want to."

And I did.

Three days after two envelopes were left for me.

The President was still alive.

The police were after me.

The Secret Service was after me.

The Daily Bugle loved Peter Parker.

The Daily Bugle loved to hate Spider-Man.

And Richard Fisk was dead.

A bunch of mobsters were under arrest while two big names from other cities were found dead.

Wilson Fisk was back in New York.

Someone new was running his operations for him here in D.C., or so I'd heard.

What's that old saying? The more things change they more they stay the same.

Though, there was one significant change, as short lived as it may have been.

Mary Jane.

After saving the leader of the free world and running from those that thought I was trying to kill him, I made a quick swing by the Bugle and dropped off a roll of film that had all of my joyous exploits of the morning ready and waiting for the paper. I knew Jameson was going to have a field day with them and I knew Spider-Man was going to get more grief because of it, but a man's got to put food on the table and swinging around in tights doesn't cut it.

And then it was back to Mary Jane's suite for a little rest and relaxation.

"You know I have to leave for London Sunday night," she said as I picked her up and carried her towards the bedroom.

"Then let's not waste any time."

And for almost three days I had her back. For three days we were the couple I remembered us being, and there was nothing but us. No Spider-Man, no Bugle, no villains, no assassination attempts, none of that.

Just MJ and me.

And then Sunday night.

"You know I love you, right?" she said as an announcement came that her plane was boarding.

I nodded. "I'm pretty sure," I said with a smirk.

And she pulled me too her and kissed me, stronger than we had kissed all weekend.

"How about now?"

"I feel like I've hit the jackpot."

She smiled. "You have, Tiger. See you when I get back stateside?"

"I'll be here."

And she turned away and boarded her plane.

There is a costume in my closet screaming for me like it always does. Beckoning me. Mocking me.

It takes the powerful words of a man who I cared for so much and distorts them, tortures me with them, taunts me with them.

Creates an excuse for its existence.

With great power comes great responsibility.

But responsibility for whom? The world or simply those I care about? What good is saving the world if I lose sight of what I need to keep myself sane and stable?

A spider bit me and its venom should have killed me but instead it granted me powers beyond anything I could have ever hoped for.

Or wanted.

A spider bit me and blessed me with the ability to make a difference.

And there isn't a day that goes by that I don't hate that damn thing.

And there isn't a day that goes by that I don't hate myself.

Or my other half.

Or the decisions I've made.

And there isn't a day that I don't think of myself as the luckiest guy in the world, even if it is for just a brief moment.

I can make a difference.

I have the responsibility to make a difference.

It has been almost three days since the President was saved. For almost three days the hero who saved him has been crucified by the press and the public. For almost three days Spider-Man has been suspiciously absent from the streets of Washington D.C.

It's Sunday night and I'm tired of brooding.

Once again, the mask wins.

And as I swing though the night sky, it laughs.

I laugh.

"...It's not the costume controlling you, it's your heart."

And in the end, nothing's changed.

What a waste of a week.

Spider-Man Issue 5 "Sinker" by Jason Kenney 


End file.
